Water is Another Matter
by SolarRose29
Summary: Steve and Clint are trapped in a submerged vehicle that is quickly filling with ice water.
1. Chapter 1

Ok, long a/n time. I had started this fic back in the winter, when it was actually cold. So we're going to have to use our imagination now that it's spring. Also, I did a ton of research on car crashes, drowning, the effects of ice water on the human body, hypothermia, and cpr. Most of it, I disregarded in the name of adding more drama to the story but some of it got to stay. If you have questions, let me know. :)

Also, I was going to wait to post this until May 1, but then I went to the theater over the weekend and I saw Chris Evans' new movie Gifted and I realized I wanted to post this now so I could rave about the movie in the a/n. The movie is so super cute! It's a great story about a man struggling to give his child prodigy niece a normal life, while the girl's grandmother wants to take custody so she can focus on the girl's education. The cast did a fantastic job giving believable performances. The girl is adorable and the movie is packed full of all the daddy!feels I could have dreamed of from Chris Evans. I don't normally cry at movies (my sister is prone to that) but I did cry a couple times during this one. Go and see it. It's amazing =)

Last thing, title is taken from the poem by Pablo Neruda.

* * *

"Come on, Cap. You're telling me that even two years after waking up, you still haven't seen Star Wars yet?" Clint questioned in disbelief.

Steve shrugged and turned the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "It hasn't exactly been a priority."

Clint snorted. "You can't call yourself Captain America if you're not up to date on one of the defining parts of American culture."

"Alright," Steve surrendered. "We should schedule a movie night and you can show me this defining movie."

"Trilogy," Clint corrected absently, gazing out the window at the falling snow.

Steve navigated the SHIELD-issued car onto the bridge. "What?"

"There are three movies," Clint explained.

"That could take a while then," Steve chuckled.

Warming to the idea, Clint shook his head. "Nah, all we have to do is change our plan from a movie night to an all day marathon."

"You think we have the kind of time for-"

A sudden jolt threw them forward, seat belts straining. As Steve fought to regain control of the vehicle, Clint twisted to look behind them. He cursed as he saw a large black truck coming at them again.

"Cap!" he called in warning.

"I see him," Steve grunted.

The truck pulled into the lane beside them. Clint's eyes widened as the other driver swerved towards them. Steve yanked on the steering wheel and stomped on the brakes, avoiding the truck. But his wheels hit a patch of ice and the car spun. Clint was thrown against the window by the motion, head smacking painfully against the cool glass. The spinning came to an abrupt end when their car smashed into the guardrail. Steve's arm automatically shot out to brace Clint as the vehicle collided with the metal.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked, looking his companion over for injuries.

"I think so," Clint answered. "Just took a hit to the head." His lips turned up ruefully but the smile quickly faded as a look of fear came over Steve's face.

"What?" Clint inquired, turning to see what Steve was staring at.

The truck had returned and positioned itself to ram directly into them. Before either Avenger could react, the bigger automobile surged forward and slammed into them. Already in a precarious position, the car slid with the impact, dropping off the edge of the bridge. For a moment, Clint was in freefall. Then the car hit the water and the seatbelt cut into his neck as it halted his momentum. Spiderweb cracks spread over the windshield, glass breaking from the force of the impact. As the vehicle sunk lower in the water, the pressure increased.

Steve tore his seatbelt off, trying to avoid looking at the cold, blue water surrounding him on all sides. Just as he reached over to help Clint, the windshield shattered. Shards of glass were swept into the men's unprotected faces and hands as the freezing water gushed in. Blood trickling down his forehead, Steve inhaled sharply, eyes darting frantically between the water outside the vehicle and the decreasing amount of dry space inside it.

Blinking blearily through the water on his eyelashes, Clint slowly lowered the hands he'd reflexively used to shelter his head. The water was rapidly filling the car, already coming up to his knees. Knowing he had no time to waste, he unbuckled and tried to rise from his seat. Only to find that his door had been warped from the hit by the truck and the metal was curled over his right leg, pinning it to the seat. No amount of squirming or tugging could free him. The water now at chest level, Clint turned to Steve.

The captain's eyes were glazed over, his breaths coming in ragged bursts through his open mouth. Clint called his name. Steve didn't respond. Determined, Clint snagged the edge of Steve's leather jacket and yanked the soldier's body closer.

"Hey! Steve!" he shouted above the roar of the rushing water. "You need to focus or we're both going to drown."

A drop of blood rolled down the plane of Steve face and into his mouth. He didn't seem to notice.

"Cap! Listen to me!" Clint yelled. "This is 2013, not 1945. You are not drowning. Yet. But if you don't snap out of it, you're going to die and get me killed in the process, you understand?"

It might have been a low blow, but it worked. Steve's gaze snapped to Clint's face.

"You with me, Steve?" Clint questioned, unconvinced. "You better be because we're just about out of time and my leg is still stuck," he summarized.

Steve glanced down at the archer's lap and his eyes got wider at the sight of the water. It was nearly to their shoulders now. And it was colder than anything Clint had ever felt before.

"C-come on," Clint urged, teeth chattering. "You c-can do this, C-cap."

Steve stared at the water for another second before he suddenly burst into motion. He grabbed Clint under the armpits and tried tugging on him.

"Ow, C-cap, stop! Th-that's not going to work," Clint told him. "I'm s-stuck!"

Steve licked his lips and reluctantly released the marksman. Clint didn't like the way Steve's pupils were so big, or the way the soldier's movements were jerky. Gritting his teeth, Clint gestured to the door panel pinning him.

"Here's th-the problem, C-cap," he said, lifting his chin above the cold water.

Steve's hands floated below the surface of the water, his face blank and distant. Uncomprehending. Cursing inside his head, Clint stretched his arm, fighting his way through the water to touch Steve's shoulder.

"S-steve, I need you to s-snap out of whatever you're s-seeing in your head. I c-could really use your h-help," Clint said. "All you h-have to do is-"

The passenger side window abruptly splintered and the water greedily tumbled into the car. Squeezing his eyes shut, Clint gagged as the liquid swept into his open mouth and slid down his throat. Without his vision, the water suddenly seemed colder, stronger, almost malevolent.

Steve reflexively whipped his head away from the spray. But the torrent of water was impossible to ignore. It engulfed the interior of the car, reaching up to the ceiling now. Panic flashed through him, originating in his heart, shooting up to his brain and spreading from there to his limbs. With a wild urgency pounding through his veins, he shifted until his legs were positioned over the warped metal. He kicked out at it viciously. But the water slowed his motions, stealing his momentum and sapping his strength.

Finding the door impossible to move, Steve glanced through the dim, subaquatic light at Clint's face. The marksman's skin was so pale, it seemed almost to gleam. His eyes were closed and his lips were slightly parted, allowing water to swirl into his mouth. And Steve knew _remembered_ what it felt like to be invaded by the freezing water, have it fill his mouth and stomach and lungs, to fill every crack, crevice and empty place in him until all that was left was the cold and the ice.

With a snarl of defiance, he lunged over Clint, fingers scrabbling against the crushed door. But his hands couldn't find purchase against the submerged metal. His pulse throbbing in his ears, he tore at the panel, fingers nearly numb with the cold. Clint's arms drifted lifelessly next to him, white hands bumping against his chest as the water moved them. With a yell that stole his remaining air, Steve threw his weight behind his next attempt, forcing every inch of serum enhanced muscle into moving that piece of metal. Unable to withstand the onslaught of sheer power, the metal yielded, inching back far enough for Steve to seize Clint's limp body and rip him from the seat.

Lungs screaming and eyes burning, Steve clutched the archer close as he lunged out of the sunken car. A jagged piece of glass, stubbornly jammed into the windshield frame, snagged in the soldier's arm as he moved past. It tore through his jacket and bit into his flesh, splitting the skin open. Unable to feel anything but the inescapable desperation to save his friend and himself, Steve took no notice of the new injury.

After clearing the interior of the vehicle, Steve became disoriented by the undulating shadows. He floated suspended in the water, unsure which way to swim. His body was shivering, fighting to generate warmth in the frigid temperature, and he found it difficult to concentrate. Blindly, he struck out in a random direction. Swirls of red trailed him as his blood tainted the water. Like a cruel tyrant clinging to power, the water dragged at his limbs. As he struggled, the water seemed to become more enraged, clawing at him, pulling him to the bottom of the lake. Panic surged in Steve's mind, cutting through his brain like electricity. While holding Clint tightly to his chest with one hand, he fumbled his other arm out of his jacket sleeve. Then he switched hands and repeated the process. The leather coat fell to the floor of the lake, blending with the rocks and mud. Free of the excess weight, Steve kicked upwards, hoping to reach the surface.

Black spots crowded his vision. His heartbeat thundered around his head, each dull thud reminding him of fate's countdown he was fighting against. There was a painful pressure in his chest, increasing with every second he spent submerged, shoving at his rib cage like a wild animal straining for freedom. With a forceful show of willpower, he pushed through the freezing liquid, his body slicing through the water.

Finally, he broke through to the sweet, clean air. Greedily, he sucked oxygen in an uncontrolled fever of relief. Waves crashed against him as he bobbed in the water, sloshing into his gaping mouth. He choked on the liquid, spitting it back up. Snowflakes settled on his eyelashes and he blinked them away as he scanned his surroundings for the shore. Through the prism of falling white, he was able to glimpse the bank ahead of him, to the left. Relieved, he propelled himself tiredly across the lake toward the dry land.

Once, Clint slipped in his aching arms and Steve's heart stopped as the archer's head jolted a couple inches closer to the water level. Instantly, he readjusted his hold on the other man, tightening his grip. His trembling limbs were difficult to control, the numbness hindering his efforts to swim. But he refused to stop. Pushing through his physical discomfort and weaknesses, he made it to the shore. Wearily, he shoved Clint onto the bank before collapsing next to him, the lower half of his legs still in the water.

After he had taken a few deep breaths, heavenly despite how the cold air stabbed his abused lungs, Steve rolled onto his side and managed a small chuckle of relief. The laugh died abruptly in his throat when he realized his friend wasn't breathing. Horrified, Steve scrambled the rest of the way out of the water and knelt beside Clint. The other man's eyes were closed, ice crystals forming on his lashes. His skin was a light shade of blue, contrasted by scattered thin lines of red where the glass had cut into it, and his body was motionless. For one terror filled moment, Steve sat immobile, unable to think past the grief.

It was happening again. He had lost a friend again. The water had taken everything from him again. Again, he wasn't strong enough. Wasn't fast enough. Wasn't enough to save his friend. He was alone again. With nothing but a blue corpse on the hard ground beneath his freezing body. Something tore from his diaphragm, a garbled sound that might have been an apology. Might have been Clint's name. Or maybe it was just the strangled cry it came out as. Reverently, Steve turned the marksman over onto his back. Water dribbled out Clint's slack mouth, sliding down the curve of his jaw and falling onto the collar of his shirt. Sinking back on his heels, Steve sighed despondently, staring down at the unresponsive archer. Guilt suddenly enveloped the captain and he bowed his head, running his fingers through his hair and bending his body over Clint's still torso. Unthinking, he dropped his hands, allowing gravity to take them where it would. His knuckles brushed Clint's neck and Steve imagined he felt a weak heartbeat against his fingers.

Despite knowing how impossible it was, despite Clint's pale skin and motionless chest, despite the fact that it was probably only wishful thinking and he was just going to be crushed when he had proof of what he already knew, Steve still repositioned his hand, nervously placing two fingers against Clint's carotid artery. The skin beneath his touch was clammy. But after several seconds, it moved faintly under him. It was enough to jolt Steve into frenzied action.

He leaned forward and closed his mouth over Clint's, using one hand to pinch the archer's nose shut. After giving the agent two breaths, he pulled back and checked the marksman's chest. It was in the same place it had been before. Frowning, Steve bent over and pushed more air into Clint's mouth. But there was no response from Barton. A seed of doubt sprang in Steve's mind and he checked Clint's pulse again. No heartbeat fluttered against his questing touch.

"No," Steve whispered. "No, no. Come on, Clint."

Moving back to allow himself room to work, Steve's knees knocked into the archer's body, turning it slightly. A small trickle of water spilled out of Clint's slack lips. Noticing this, Steve rolled the man further onto his side. After the last drops of liquid came out, Steve placed Clint flat on his back before attempting to breathe for him again. When he did, Clint's chest rose fractionally. Face set in determination, Steve interlocked his hands and centered them on Clint's sternum. Counting out the compressions, he rhythmically pushed up and down. After thirty beats, he paused to force two hard breaths down Clint's throat. Then he returned to the chest compressions.

 _One, two, three._

He was eight years old and staring at his father's simple grave in the church cemetery.

 _Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty._

He was sixteen and holding his mother's hand as her eyes closed for the final time.

 _Breath, breath._

He was twenty-six and screaming as Bucky fell.

 _Six, seven, eight._

He was twenty-seven and drowning in the arctic.

 _Eleven, twelve, thirteen._

He was ninety-two and waking up to find himself alone.

 _Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two._

 _ **Snap!**_

Clint surged up, lake water and bile tumbling from his mouth. Steve hoisted him higher, rotating him to the side to ease the vomiting process. Clint coughed, puked, sputtered and choked. And Steve held him through it, supporting his back, bracing his shoulders. Finally, the spasm ceased, leaving Clint gasping, blinking and shivering. Steve dragged the archer to himself, clamping his arms around his friend and basking in the amazement of Clint being alive.

"Urgh…" Clint groaned, shifting slightly as pain in his rib cage protested the embrace.

Steve maintained the connection only a moment longer before he pulled back, grinning uncontrollably. "Welcome back, Clint."

Slightly confused and too out of breath to talk, Clint settled for merely nodding. Steve clapped a hand against his shoulder, facial expression unusually vulnerable, telegraphing his earlier desperation beneath his current relief and happiness. Woozy and weak, Clint leaned his weight into Steve's arm, allowing the soldier to carry his weight. His head hurt. His lungs hurt. His ribs hurt. But he was still alive. Something for which he owed Steve. Clint struggled to sit up straighter, attempting to make eye contact with his rescuer.

"Th-tha-thanks," he managed to pant before another coughing fit overtook him. His entire frame shook from the force of it as his lungs emptied out the remaining water. Strings of saliva stuck to his gums, even as he tried to spit it all out. Steve quietly supported him. Once he finished hacking, Clint found his body still trembling and it was then he realized he was freezing.

"C-cold," he stuttered.

Steve's eyebrows creased in worry and he glanced around for any helpful items. But there were only rocks, sticks and dead leaves, frozen in muddy piles scattered throughout the surrounding area. His own clothes were soaked through, leaving him with nothing to offer the agent. Realizing how helpless he was, Steve reached into his pocket for his phone. He pulled it out and was dismayed, but not surprised, to find the device ruined from the trip underwater. He turned to Clint apologetically.

"I know. I'm sorry," he murmured.

Clint frowned when he saw the shivers running through the captain's body. "S-so I g-guess we're both s-screwed, huh?"

Steve shook his head. "Don't say that."

"Don't s-say s-screwed cuz iza bad word or don't s-say it cuz you think we're gonna s-survive?" Clint questioned impishly, words slightly slurred.

"Both," Steve replied, smiling self-deprecatingly.

Clint huffed a small noise of amusement, then fell silent as he concentrated on breathing, taking big breaths to make up for when he hadn't been able to breathe at all. Steve sat next to him, shuddering in the cold air. Without conscious thought, Clint tilted his body into Steve's, using the captain to prop himself up. Steve simply shifted to accommodate him. The sky overhead began to prepare for the early winter twilight, clouds drifting north, taking the snow with them.

The pounding headache in Clint's skull didn't stop him from assessing their bleak situation. He and Steve were both sopping wet with freezing water, sitting in the open in the freezing temperature, with night fast approaching, and no way to contact help. He knew the logical thing to do would be to stand up and get moving. To start walking through the trees behind them, hike their way up the hill to the highway, try and wave down a car, and hope a good samaritan would be willing to give them a ride, or at the very least, allow them to borrow a phone. They had to get their blood flowing. It was their only hope to avoid hypothermia.

But he was so tired. There was a steady pressure squeezing his brain, while the grinding in his chest whenever he moved his torso assured him of a broken rib, and the pins and needles in his nearly numb limbs were impossible to ignore. And the landscape was so peaceful. The lake was picturesque, blue water crowned with lapping white waves, the trees on the opposite bank coated in fresh snow. A couple of birds twittered around them, occasionally taking brief flights from one shore to the other. The only thing that didn't seem to belong in the charming scene was the super soldier shaking beside him. Clint opened his mouth but Steve spoke before he could.

"You okay?"

Clint considered the question. "Yeah," he finally decided. "You?"

Steve turned his face to the water and was silent for so long, Clint wasn't sure he would answer. Then, Steve inhaled and Clint perked up to listen to Steve's words. And instead heard the distinct growl of Iron Man's thrusters. The red and gold armor streaked through the sky before coming to a stop in front of them.

"What do we have here? A capsicle and a hawksicle?" Tony hovered a few feet off the ground.

"Stark!" Steve exclaimed happily.

"You two can't be left alone. We let you go off by yourselves for a single afternoon and look what happens," Tony tutted in faux disapproval.

"How did you find us?" Clint questioned.

"Oh, it was easy after Jarvis gave me a heart attack with that amateur video footage of your car plunging off the side of a bridge," Tony informed them curtly.

"What?" Steve asked.

"Yeah, apparently some driver pulled out their phone and caught your little accident on film. The video's trending now, if you're interested. The quality is crap but it's still pretty exciting," Tony said, dropping down next to them.

"No thanks. I already got the full experience. I don't think I need the replay," Clint declined.

"Tony, get Clint back to the Tower. He's freezing." Steve clumsily got to his feet and reached down to offer his hand to the archer.

Clint frowned. "We both are."

Steve grabbed the agent's forearm and hauled him upright. Still a bit unsteady himself, Steve nearly toppled both of them over. Tony quickly rescued them with a stabilizing grip on their arms.

"Easy there, Frosty. I'll have you both by the fireside in no time," Tony promised. "Natasha's on her way. She's got the car and why the hell is there blood on Clint's chest?" he finished in a rush, noticing the crimson spilled across the front of Clint's uniform.

Clint and Steve exchanged surprised glances before looking down at where Tony had mentioned.

"I don't remember getting hurt…" Clint muttered.

Steve reached out an arm to inspect the staining red and Tony caught his wrist.

"That's because you aren't the one who's injured, Birdman," he said, glaring accusingly at Steve from behind his mask.

"I don't remember getting hurt either," Steve protested.

"Well, this," Tony lightly shook the arm with the four inch gash in it, "Doesn't seem like the type of thing that's easy to ignore."

"I had more important things on my mind," Steve defended, reclaiming his arm.

Clint snatched it away the second he did, studying the cut for himself. Steve gave a long-suffering sigh and didn't pull away.

"I guess you were just trying to match your face?" Tony said sarcastically, gesturing to the many scrapes littering the captain's exposed skin.

"Why don't you survive a car crash and see how pretty you look?" Clint grumbled, squinting through his headache to assess the damage to Steve's arm.

"It's fine," Steve assured him.

"I think I'd prefer to let the medical professionals determine that," Tony cut in. "You two are both getting a thorough check-up when we get back to the Tower."

Clint groaned and it was only Steve's old-fashioned manners that kept him from doing the same.

"Please tell me Dr. Gamard is on vacation," Clint begged.

"What's wrong with Gamard?" Tony queried.

"You might as well call him Dr. 'Can't Keep my Hands to Myself'," Clint retorted.

"He's a doctor. He's supposed to examine his patients," Tony defended his employee.

Clint crossed his arms. "Have you seen the way he 'examines' Cap?"

Steve's cheeks flushed in embarrassment "I'd rather avoid another encounter with him, if it's all the same to you, Stark."

Tony sniffed indignantly. "You two are overreacting. I think you're just jealous you don't have your own personal medical staff."

"That's because you insist we use yours," Clint pointed out.

"Hey, what do you know? Natasha's here." Tony quickly changed the subject. "Let's get going, gentlemen. Who would like to be the first to board the Iron Man Express?"

"You go ahead," Steve said to Clint.

"You look like you're about to collapse," Clint argued.

"I'm not the one who lost consciousness," Steve countered.

"Oh no. Tell me you didn't kiss him," Tony interrupted.

Clint and Steve rolled their eyes at him.

"Ha! You did, didn't you?" Tony pressed gleefully. "So, Clint, how does it feel to be one of the few people in history who can honestly say they've been kissed by Captain America?"

"Actually, I slept through it," Clint humored the teasing scientist.

Tony winced. "Yikes, Cap. Looks like you need to up your game."

Steve smiled indulgently at Tony's antics before reminding him of the very real threat of hypothermia and the even greater threat of keeping Natasha waiting.


	2. Chapter 2

Trekkiehood requested a continuation of this fic! So this chapter is dedicated to them! (Not only because they asked for it, but also because they've been leaving reviews on all my stories and I love reviews! :D )

I do quite a bit of research for my stories and sometimes find interesting stuff to add in. Also, I tried to let the characters speak for themselves but if there's confusion about their motives or reasoning, please review or PM me and I can clear things up ;)

Final thing, this chapter picks up a few hours after the first one.

* * *

"Good news," Clint announced, coming into the common room. "I'll live."

Steve sprang off the couch immediately. "What did the doctor say?"

"Just the usual." Waving away the helping hand Steve offered, Clint gingerly lowered himself onto the couch cushions. "Eat well, don't smoke, get eight hours of sleep."

Steve sighed, exasperated. "Come on, Clint."

"Nothing a good night's rest won't fix," Clint said.

Crossing his arms, Steve stared down at the archer. "How bad is it?"

Clint rolled his eyes and held up a finger. "Okay, first of all, it wasn't your fault."

"How can you say-" Steve began.

"If you hadn't, I'd be dead right now. I think that's a pretty fair trade, wouldn't you say?" Clint interrupted.

Steve scratched lightly at the gauze beneath his sleeve and said nothing.

"And second," Clint continued, "Six to eight weeks, I'm good as new."

Steve exhaled in relief before his brow furrowed. "You won't be able to shoot with that, will you?"

Clint snorted. "You do realize I work for SHIELD, right? You honestly think a cracked rib is the worst injury I've ever gotten? I've played through far worse. And sit down already. You're making me antsy."

At the marksman's request, Steve settled on the nearby armchair. "But you shouldn't fight?" he clarified. "You're supposed to rest and take it easy?"

Throwing his feet up on the coffee table, Clint curled his mouth into a smirk. "You bet. Which means I'm going to milk this for all it's worth."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "You've got that look."

"What look?" Clint spread his hands innocently.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway behind them, accompanied by the rustle of plastic bags.

"Okay, I got two orders of Thai, a bucket of chicken wings, a couple of large pizzas, and the biggest bottle of extra strength Ibuprofen I could find." Tony's voice could be heard coming closer.

Steve's mouth dropped open. "You didn't?!" he exclaimed, staring at Clint.

"I did," Clint snickered, quickly changing his expression into an exaggerated grimace of pain as Tony entered the room.

"Here you go, you invalid," Tony declared, depositing the many bags on the coffee table beside Clint's boots. "I think I got it all, though that was quite an extensive list you gave me."

Making a show out of nudging the bags with the toe of his shoe, Clint looked up with faux accusation. "Where's the beer?"

"What do you want with all this stuff anyway?" Tony questioned. "It's not like you can eat everything yourself."

"Most of it's for him." Clint jerked a thumb at Steve. "So where's the six-pack I asked for?"

"You don't want to mix booze and medication. Trust me, I'm talking from experience," Tony said.

"You do it all the time." Clint frowned.

"That's why I said I was talking from experience. Duh," Tony said.

Grumbling under his breath about hypocritical rich dudes, Clint shuffled through the items on the table until he found the bottle of pain medicine. He shook several pills into his palm and dry swallowed them.

"Remind me again why I had to go out and personally fetch your food for you?" Tony asked, crossing his arms.

"Because I'm a suspicious son of a gun and don't trust anyone else to deliver it?" Clint offered with a cheeky smirk.

"...That makes sense," Tony agreed after a moment's thoughtful pause. "But I kind of meant why couldn't you go and get this stuff yourself?"

Clint looked offended. "Because I have a broken rib!"

"Don't be a drama queen, Barton. It's only cracked," Natasha said, gliding into the room.

She invited herself into the seat next to him before leaning forward and claiming one of the cartons of noodles for herself.

"You mean to tell me he's perfectly capable of grabbing his own takeout?" Tony demanded.

Natasha's arched eyebrows were all the answer he needed as she casually began her meal.

"Tasha," Clint groaned. "Why'd you have to spoil it? Couldn't you at least have given me a couple weeks? I was just getting used to the idea of having a personal servant."

"Nobody makes an errand boy out of Tony Stark!" Tony spluttered in outrage.

"The food on the table suggests otherwise," Clint pointed out.

"You owe me. You owe me big for that, birdbrain," Tony swore, shaking a finger in Clint's face.

Unapologetic, Clint popped the lid off the first box of pizza. "You're gullible. You can't lay that on me."

"Valid point," Natasha commented.

"Do you all want to find somewhere else to live? Because it would be my pleasure to evict you," Tony threatened.

"You know you love us," Clint said, proudly displaying a mouth full of pizza.

Disgusted with the partially mashed pepperoni and dough, Tony looked away.

"Hey, errand boy, turn on the TV, will you?" Clint requested. The remote smacking off his chest was the only response Tony gave him. "Ow! Broken rib, remember?"

"Cracked," Natasha corrected.

"Move over, errand boy. You're blocking the screen," Clint called at Tony.

"Okay. The whole 'errand boy' thing has got to stop. Like right now," Tony demanded.

"And you have to move. Like right now," Clint quipped in return.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "I swear it's like living with a bunch of children."

"What are we watching? A Hallmark holiday original?" Tony finally caved in and found a spot on the second sofa.

"It's the middle of January," Clint said.

"Don't worry. I recorded them all for you," Tony said. "I'd hate for you to miss even one sappy second and now you can watch them all year round."

"Cap, you've been pretty quiet over there," Natasha noted without even looking at him. "What do you think we should watch?"

Steve opened his mouth, but Clint spoke before he had the chance.

"Why are you asking him? I'm the one with the broken rib!" Clint protested.

"Cracked," Natasha and Tony corrected in unison.

"Either way, out of all of us, I'm the one with the most serious injury so that means I get to pick," Clint argued.

"What? No, it doesn't," Tony said.

"Yes, it does. That's the rule," Clint said.

Tony shook his head. "You're making all of this up."

"No, remember that time after the whole Dr. Doom incident? We all agreed whoever was the most badly injured got control of the remote." Clint insisted.

"You are so full of it!" Tony accused.

"If you want the remote, you'll have to fight me for it," Clint warned.

"I thought you said you have a broken rib?" Tony reminded suspiciously.

"Cracked," Natasha and Clint corrected in unison.

"I could have three cracked ribs and still take you down without breaking a sweat," Clint boasted.

"Whatever." Tony flapped his hand dismissively. "Just pick something to watch already."

"I have," Clint said, navigating through the television's menus. "I've picked something educational." At that, he glanced to Steve, who was observing his team's interaction with a look of amused contentment.

"Uh, Legolas? I thought you messed up your ribs, not your eyes. You just selected Star Wars," Tony said.

"I know."

"Well, last I checked, Star Wars doesn't fit the definition of educational," Tony said.

"Maybe not for you," Clint said cryptically, eyes sliding to Steve again.

Tony noticed and surprise came over his face. "Cap's never seen Star Wars?"

Steve shook his head.

"Geez, Rogers! You can't call yourself an American if you haven't witnessed the epic saga of Luke Skywalker and his quest to rid the galaxy of the evil emperor," Tony complained.

"See? That's what I told him," Clint said, gesturing enthusiastically with the remote.

As the opening score blasted through the speakers and the golden letters scrolled up the screen, Steve leaned forward in his seat. "Is any of this real?"

"What? No, of course not. This is all the brainchild of George Lucas," Tony said.

"But is it based on anything real?" Steve persisted. "You know, any people who actually lived."

"Aliens aren't real, Steve," Clint reminded.

"My friends! I have just returned from that excellent Midgardian place of dining with the golden arches!" Thor's booming voice drowned out the trumpeting of the movie's theme.

Steve raised a challenging eyebrow at Clint as Thor strolled into the room.

"Except for Thor," Clint grudgingly conceded.

"And Loki," Natasha chimed in.

"And the weird alien army he brought with him," Steve added.

Clint threw his hands up in exasperation. "The point is Star Wars is all fake. Now shut up and watch the movie."

"What are we watching?" Thor asked, grabbing a piece of pizza before flopping onto the sofa beside Tony, launching the billionaire a couple inches into the air.

"I thought you said you just had McDonald's," Tony said as he dropped back onto the cushion.

"Indeed. But now I am returned and have found a feast prepared," Thor said, stuffing half of the slice into his mouth in one bite.

Worried that the demigod might devour everything before he had a chance to eat, Tony snatched the bucket of chicken, hunching over it possessively.

"Shh!" Clint ordered.

The movie viewing wasn't nearly as quiet as Clint had hoped. Steve frequently needed to ask questions, as he found the story difficult to follow with the distractions in the room, namely Thor and Tony wrestling each other over the fried chicken, while Natasha snapped her chopsticks into splinters that she used to craft oddly shaped weapons that she didn't hesitate to test on her teammates.

Two hours later, as Princess Leia awarded Han and Luke their medals, the Avengers decided that, since no world-ending crisis had arisen, they would enjoy their peaceful evening by playing the next movie of the trilogy. JARVIS automatically dimmed the lights in deference to the late hour. Even before Han was frozen in carbonite, a crumb-dusted Thor was already slouching against the back of the couch, snoring robustly. Tony's attention had been abducted by his tablet and Natasha eventually ran out of supplies for her experimental weapon crafting venture. This time, when the end credits replaced the characters on screen, there wasn't enough of the team invested in the movie marathon to justify starting the final installment.

Stretching stiff joints, Tony rose and begged off from further activities in the name of assisting Bruce with a project in the lab. Natasha left for her own room, but not before giving Clint a gentle reminder to get some rest. Wisely deciding to let sleeping Asgardians lie, Steve gathered the empty food containers, dirty utensils, crumpled napkins, and plastic bags, and took them to the kitchen to dispose of. As he finished, he heard footsteps. He turned to find Clint coming to a stop by the island and then carefully settling himself on one of the bar stools there. The archer mildly gestured to the seat next to him.

"Shouldn't you be heading to bed?" Steve questioned, glancing at the microwave's clock.

"Five more minutes, mom?" Clint teased.

Steve huffed and braced an arm against the counter. "Come on, Clint. You had a pretty rough day."

"Yeah...about that." Clint fixed Steve with a concerned gaze. "What happened out there?"

"What do you mean?" Steve asked, confused.

"I mean you weren't your normal cool and collected self," Clint said. "We've been in plenty of dangerous situations and you've never lost your head. But today, in the river, you...I don't know. It was like you spaced out on me."

Steve looked away, ashamed.

Clint leaned forward, grimacing at the muted pain the motion caused his rib, in an attempt to catch Steve's gaze. "Is this something we need to talk about?"

Silent, Steve stubbornly stared at the sink.

"Cap, if something like this ever happens on a mission-" Clint started.

Steve's head whipped up and his eyes widened with panic. "It won't! I swear, Clint!"

"Okay, calm down," Clint placated, straightening again. "I didn't say that it would, just that we might need to deal with this now so no one gets hurt later on."

"I'm fine," Steve murmured, fingers clenched into a desperate fist. He raised his chin, as if daring Clint to argue. But the tense line of his shoulders and the tick in his jaw allowed Clint to see how untrue the statement was.

Clint sighed, recognizing the familiar need to convince other people, as well as one's self, of a lie that should be true.

"Today was-I just…" Steve had to stop, pressing his lips together firmly as he struggled for words. After a moment, he squared his shoulder and made direct eye contact with the marksman. "I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Uh-huh." Clint nodded, skeptical. "And just how are you going to do that?"

Steve stiffened. "I'll figure it out."

"Right. Because you've had two years to figure it out and you still haven't," Clint pointed out. Steve's eyes flashed with hurt. Clint mentally braced himself and kept talking. "But you are the Man With a Plan, so I shouldn't be worried. Next time, you won't have a panic attack. You won't be having some kind of flashback. You won't lose control while doing CPR." When Steve flinched, Clint pressed harder, raising his voice. "Or maybe you will. Maybe next time you don't just crack my rib, you break it. You break it, and it punctures a lung, and I die from internal bleeding. That would be on you." He stabbed an accusatory finger at Steve's blanching face. "It would be your fault for being too stubborn to admit you need help."

"I don't need help!" Steve automatically protested, his face a mixture of anger, guilt and fear.

"Stop lying to yourself!" Clint snapped. "I was there. I saw what happened to you. You're clearly not okay with what happened to you back then and you're clearly not okay if something similar happens now. Obviously, it's something you need to deal with. And if you don't want to talk to me about it, that's fine. But you need to talk to someone, Steve!"

"Talk about it?" Steve repeated with irritated incredulity. "What the heck is that supposed to do?"

"I know it sounds cheesy and like something only weepy women do, but I promise it actually helps," Clint said.

"You know who else told me talking would help?" Steve's tone abruptly turned bitter. "My doctor, back when I was a kid."

Clint frowned in confusion. "You saw a psychiatrist when you were a kid?"

"No, he was a physician. Came to the house to treat my asthma. Always told me talking about it would help. And you know what? It never got any better!" Steve argued.

"Why would he say that? Asthma is a physical condition. It has nothing to do with your state of mind. Why would a doctor want you to talk about it?" Clint wondered.

Steve didn't seem to hear his questions. "If talking didn't help then, why would it help now?"

"I don't know what psychology was like when you were growing up, but the field has definitely advanced since then," Clint insisted. "Psychotherapy is now one of the most common ways to treat PTSD." His lips twisted into a self-deprecating smile. "After Loki stole my mind, I needed a little help getting it back. Psychologists aren't all bad."

Steve shook his head. "That's a completely different situation."

"Why are you so against this?" Clint demanded. "You have a problem and you don't want to fix it. Why?"

"I'm not broken, Barton," Steve growled, shoulders hunching defensively.

"Look, Cap, what happened to you was awful and, gosh, I can't even imagine what you've been through, but there are ways to cope with it," Clint said.

"I am coping," Steve insisted.

"Really? The sleepless nights, the lack of appetite, all of your darn depressing drawings-that's coping?" Clint crossed his arms lightly, mindful of his injured rib.

Steve's jaw dropped, betrayed. "You've been spying on me."

"Look who you're talking to. That's literally my job description," Clint snorted. "But really, it's stuff anyone can see if they just pay attention."

"You've been going through my sketches," Steve accused.

"Okay, so I snooped. A little. But if you didn't want anyone to find them, you should have hidden them better."

"They were in a locked box in a locked drawer of my desk in my locked bedroom," Steve said, narrowing his eyes.

"Like I said, they need to be better hidden. Geez, Cap. Keep in mind that you live in the same building as a pair of highly skilled secret agents," Clint said, using a blase attitude to cover the twinge of guilt he felt.

Steve sighed in resignation, allowing the matter to drop without seeking an explanation or retribution. A lull in conversation took over, allowing a hush to settle in the room.

"It's not weakness to admit you need help," Clint told him quietly. "And it doesn't make you any less of a man, or a captain, to accept it."

Steve hung his head, face downturned, hiding his expression from Clint. The silence came back, longer this time. Clint could think of nothing else to say, no argument he hadn't already made. Coming to the conclusion that Steve was unreceptive to his attempts to help, Clint slid off the stool, disappointed to a degree he hadn't anticipated.

"It's usually worse at night."

Clint paused halfway to the door. He turned to look over his shoulder. Steve was slumped in defeat, finally putting words to a struggle he hadn't wanted to face. But he lifted his chin, carrying on with his intrinsic courage. He met Clint's gaze without flinching, though the corners of his eyes were pinched with anxiety.

"The nightmares?" Clint prompted after a minute had passed without Steve adding more to his admission.

Steve shook his head. "No. I have those, but I've gotten used to them."

"Then what is it?" Clint asked, taking a couple steps closer.

Taking a deep breath, Steve said, "It's being alone."

"Alone?" Clint repeated, uncomprehending.

"The rest of you are asleep and I'm awake at two in the morning, wandering the empty common rooms, thinking of everyone I lost and wondering when it's going to happen again," Steve explained. His lips turned up in a sad parody of a smile. "It's stupid, I know." He shrugged. "The whole ice situation probably won't happen too often. But what happened after," he gestured to Clint's rib cage. "When I pulled you out and your heart stopped...I panicked. All I could think about was that I was losing another friend, and I couldn't do anything to stop it."

Clint swallowed. He knew he had gone into cardiac arrest, but hearing it out loud still sent a shiver down his spine.

"Just when I think I'm over it, that I'm adjusting to my life here, something happens and all the issues I thought I was past come back out again," Steve revealed, watching Clint nervously to gauge his reaction. "I know I shouldn't be having these problems. Like you said, it's been two years." He looked down again, as if confessing something shameful.

"Steve," Clint called softly, but firmly. Steve chanced raising his eyes. "What you're going through is completely normal," he assured him. "Heck, I'd be worried if you could fight Nazis, get frozen, wake up in an entirely new century, and resume your usual heroics without at least a little PTSD." He counted it a victory when Steve huffed a quiet laugh at that. "I wasn't trying to give you the wrong message earlier." Clint's tone sobered. I'm sorry if I pushed too hard, but I knew you wouldn't talk otherwise. Look, you're going through some stuff. So am I. And I know for a fact every other member of this team is too. It comes with the territory. There's no way to live the kind of lives we do, to see the crap we see, to do the bad things we have to, without getting affected by it. I wanted you to deal with it, not just because you're our captain and we need to be able to trust you in any situation out in the field, but for you. You're a good man, Steve, and you don't deserve to struggle with this on your own."

Relief came over Steve, visible in the loosening of his rigid spine and the softening of his eyes.

"Don't worry about the team thinking any less of you. You've already proven yourself to us more than enough times. Not to mention, you doing this? It might set a good example. At the very least, Stark could benefit from a visit to a therapist," Clint said.

Steve smirked. "And then the therapist will need therapy."

Clint laughed at the unexpected joke, agreeing.

Steve grew serious once more, though there was a lightness in his posture, as if he was no longer bent beneath an unseen burden. "Thank you, Clint."

"You saved my life. This is the least I could do," Clint stated confidently.


End file.
